Lessons Learned
by Charlie Yubari
Summary: Followup to The Kind of Little Boy. Jonathan Teatime learns a little more from his punishment that the Guild masters perhaps hoped. Some very mild violence.


Teatime hadn't ever hated anything before. When people said they hated things they seemed to mean that they simply disliked them; he wasn't sure why such a strong word was necessary. And besides, most things were quite fun, or at least interesting, if you looked at them in the right way.

He hated the ropes.

The first night they tied him up he hissed and kicked and shrieked and struggled until his wrists bled and the other boys threw things at him in the darkness and he eventually subsided into sobs. When he woke, the ropes had already been loosed and the dorm was empty. But the others who shared the room - the small number of Guild orphans too young to join the student's dorms - had taken advantage of his punishment: the sheets of Teatime's bed were covered in various words and phrases written in charcoal, mostly commenting on his mental stability.

He rubbed his wrists but didn't bother getting up.

It was more fun to simply lie there and plan out the creative inhumations of each of them.

The second night his wrists were too sore to struggle as badly as he had the first. He gave up after two hours of wriggling and kicking and pulling, and the servant who tied him walked away with only some minor bruising.

The inhumation game he'd played that day was fun, but far too easy. He went through the entire Guild twice, changing method and location each time, slowly becoming more elaborate and creative as the night went on. That was the problem with not-struggling: he hadn't tired himself out enough to sleep, and his wrists were sore, and his arms were beginning to ache from being held in the same position for so long. He pushed himself upwards with his legs, trying to get into a sitting position, but the sheets slipped under his feet and his arms didn't seem to bend that way. He tried to turn onto his side, because that's how he slept, curled up, head pillowed on one arm - and found that that, too, was impossible.

In the morning he was too dazed and exhausted to even snarl at the servant who came to untie him. Instead he curled up gratefully, massaging his sore arms, hoping to sleep.

On the third morning the servant didn't come to untie him until two hours after breakfast.

He was dazed and he was sore and everyone was laughing at him and he fell asleep during the class he was late for. It was the first time he'd ever done so. The subject was one he'd worked rather had to be prove he could placed two year-groups ahead in, too, and he woke with a frustrated snarl that made two of the boys sitting near to him jump.

"Mr Teatime," the teacher said sharply, rapping a ruler on the desk. "I was under the impression you were being taught some measure of civility?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but it's Teh-ah-tim-eh, sir," Teatime said, politely but groggily. "And I amn't able to sleep because of the ropes, you see, that's why--"

"Don't talk back," the teacher said, rapping the ruler against Teatime's bruised and raw wrists.

(In six months this particular teacher was involved in a tragic, freak accident involving a cat and a rather heavy rusted saw falling from a great height. Assassins, of course, are used to the rather competitive nature of their profession; the fact that the incident occurred in a favourite haunt of little Jonathan's was never remarked upon.)

The next morning the servant attempted the same thing. Teatime gazed up at him, smiling serenely until he was out of his bonds. Then he pounced, digging his fingernails into the man's neck and biting savagely at his cheek.

"What the - get off me, you crazy little bugger!"

He didn't have a knife - he wasn't old enough to be a student yet, after all - but he tore quite well with his nails, screeching. He bit and kicked and pummelled the man until strong arms pulled him off, tugging his own arms behind his back.

The Guild masters were not pleased.

"Well, you see, I was very tired from having my arms tied like that. And I kept being left until after breakfast and being late for classes, and I know how terribly important my education is, sirs."

They tied him up early that night. But at least this time the servant came promptly, and did so for the rest of the week. Teatime was scolded again, for the state of his graffittied bed sheets this time; no one would believe that he found it difficult to recall the names of the others in his dorm, that he was unable to lay the blame on any one child.

He spent some time finding out their names. Then, when he was untied on the first day of the weekend, he made sure he dedicated a few hours to the memorization of each. Apparently it was more important than he had thought.

For some reason the boys seemed a little taken aback when they returned from... whatever it was that children with friends did on their free days, to find their names scrawled over and over on the wall behind each bed. Teatime was balanced on the bedstead of the very last, arms and face filthy from charcoal. He spotted the boy who belonged to the bed he was stuck on, and bounced over to him, grinning viciously.

"Hi! What's –your- name?"

Teatime hated the ropes. But his punishment certainly taught him a few things.


End file.
